August 22, 2007
Mel Brooks is a genius, especially in his earlier work. We're quite devoted to Blazing Saddles, a really brilliant satire on racism, in which Madeline Kahn, as a beautiful and entrancing German bar hall performer, sings an ennui-filled song about how she's tired of being admired. David suggested I use the song line as a post title when I said I wanted to write something about being "othered" in Madagascar, and it just fits so well.
We don't blend here. I don't generally have a problem with this since blending is not something I'm good at. Hell, I've only ever blended in Austria and the Netherlands, but David has been used to blending. He blended in Italy, Greece, Morocco and Turkey, so when we first got to Swaziland where everyone else immediately picked up on the fact that he wasn't a native, he had a bit of a shock. Three years later, he still hasn't quite recovered.
What bothers him most is the special treatment we get. There have been several instances in multiple countries in which we've gotten away with breaking the rules just because somehow as white people we're assumed to be special. Never mind that we broke the rules because we didn't, or don't, speak the language, the fact that we don't get called on it really irks David. People in Africa often let us cut in lines, wait on us first and just generally treat us as though we're privileged.
Sometimes I like the special attention. While exhausting, the time this photo captured is one of my favorite memories of Madagascar, so far. We spent a happy half hour talking to each other in mutually incomprehensible languages; proved that everyone has white palms; and that yes, my whiteness extends at least up to my knee.
(David had a slightly less controlled attempt to verify that his whiteness covered his whole body when he had to wave the shower wand at several impish faces peering in at him through a hole at eye-level while he was showering at Ranomafana NP campsite. I was relieved the kids had all been called away when it was my turn to get the grim off.)
Being visibly identified as 'other' works both ways, though. We're targets for all of the people who assume that just because we're white we have fistfuls of cash to fling around and charge us more. This is annoying, but not as bad as having three out of every four kids demanding money, candy or a pen. It's not so much being asked that I find aggravating, but the fact that some irresponsible tourist in the past gave a kid something and created a culture of dependency. David's gotten so tired of saying 'no' all of the time that he wants to get t-shirts printed up saying: I am not your bank, candy shop or stationary store. This would be great except someone would probably ask for it since t-shirts are something else thoughtless tourists have given out in the past.
I am more ambivalent about being othered than David is. I hate the history of colonialism that has led to white people being viewed as special and I get a little weary of continuously saying, "No, thank you" to everyone we meet. But I made those kids' day when we held hands for a while. And when we walk through some rural village and I smile at a woman sitting outside her house cleaning rice in a flat reed-woven platter and she looks startled and then gives me a delighted, beautiful smile back, it makes me really happy. Happier, even, than enjoying Blazing Saddles.
